Postcard

Back from three weeks in India.
Surreal trip. Have you ever had the sensation that looking at everything around you, you wanted to draw a giant question mark over it all?

How long does my father really have?
What Will Happen After?
Where I will live.
The fractured horizon over the river - on one side, glass-fronted skyscrappers and on the other, homes made of mud and plastic. A dead river in between. Airbrushed adverts of glossy couples sheltering mothers nursing their babies on the pavement. Everything becoming gloss and polish, surfaces and screens, where there used to be old trees and carved buildings. Shops where there used to be markets. Empty coffee shops where we used to stand amongst crowds pushing and shoving to eat a vada-pav.
Why? How? What can I do?
When Mumbai finally eats up the mangrove, where will those little fishing boats go?
How long does Pasha have?
How long does my Mother have? Will we meet again? (Yes, we will, won't we?)
If I don't buy this dresss or that blouse or those shoes, will that woman or those slum-dwellers have more, will a green field somewhere stay green?
What can I buy the woman who has helped raise me for 28 years and slept on an army camper bed in my sisters' room every night and washed our dishes and our clothes and made our breakfast and woken us up early to study for our exams and held us when we scrapped our knees and slapped us when we said something rude or thoughtless, harder than our own parents would ever think of doing?
Where will I live?
How long does my father have?
What will happen after?

All day, all night, these images, the question mark superimposed.